


My Little Bird (is a Troublemaker)

by sElkieNight60



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Comfort, Comfort/Angst, DaddyBats, Dick Grayson Whump, Dick Grayson is Robin, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Parent Bruce Wayne, Protective Bruce Wayne, Se.N, Underage Drinking, Whump, bat dad, dad!bats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-05-13 11:10:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19249993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sElkieNight60/pseuds/sElkieNight60
Summary: No, not good enough, thought Bruce as he gripped the boy's shoulders in his hands. Dick still didn't move and the man had to resist the violent urge to shake the answer out of him. This wasn't his little bird. This wasn't his Robin, he would never do something like this.Dick gets caught drunk, Bruce loses it.





	1. My Little Bird (is a Troublemaker)

**Author's Note:**

> Not my most accurate characterisation, but Robin needed a hug.

Bruce bit back an irritated sigh as he glanced across the length of the table to where his ward sat, the boy tapping his fork absently against the wood and staring despondently at his dinner. _Odd_ , he thought. Dick loved Alfred's roast pork and potatoes.

Never before had Bruce Wayne met a child quite like Dick Grayson, nor had he ever felt quite so protective of one. Like flint against a stone, the child had sparked something fierce inside him from the moment they'd met, bringing to life a dormant feeling that Bruce had not known in a long time. It was strangulating and freeing all at once, it left him sleepless some nights and bereft of nightmares on others, but Bruce knew he wouldn't trade it for anything. After tasting such sweet waters he'd realised he was a parched man in the desert who'd stumbled across an oasis, there was no way he could turn his back and walk away from it now. The little Robin had nested in Batman's heart and called it home long before Bruce could even think to object, knowing he would never be the same inscrutably enigmatic man as before with something so fragile and trusting having made its home beside Batman's eyrie.

There was no big moment, no parade or show, it had not happened as though the proverbial rug had been swept out from under his feet. No, instead it had been a series of smaller moments. It was catching himself smiling at the boy, hanging from the chandelier cackling having not yet noticed his guardian's arrival home. It was Alfred, shooting a clandestine smirk his way, amusement tugging at the corners of the old man's mouth with the knowledge that Bruce's esoteric heart had opened up for one more, his little Robin.

Not that the villains of Gotham needed know that, to them he still wore the Dark Knight persona, but solo missions weren't quite the same anymore. Batman enjoyed them far less, often finding himself listening out for the snappy quips and comebacks he associated with Robin, feeling disappointed and foolish when they didn't come.

However, dealing with his little bird over the last few days had been… _trying_ , to say the least.

Bruce's entire body rankled at the harsh, continuing rhythm. “Eat your food.” He said sternly, eyes pinning the young man with a quick glare. He wasn't a fan of unnecessary noise, Dick knew this, and the constant tapping was really grinding on his nerves. It wasn't the first night this week Dick had irked him either, last night the boy had decided chewing with his mouth open had been a fun idea until Bruce had snapped at him, frustrated and annoyed.

The beat stopped for a moment as his ward looked up with surprise, “Sorry.” He mumbled, stabbing at a potato half-heartedly. Bruce just inwardly sighed.

The last few weeks had been completely flat out at the Justice League, criminals had been popping up left, right and center all over the world. They would just barely finish arresting one gang when a new criminal ring would spring up somewhere else―Bruce had certainly had his work cut out for him between splitting his time with the League and the usual suspects causing trouble on the streets of Gotham. He felt worn through like the well-loved blanket of a child, having spent his last month being tossed and thrown about and going through the wash cycle, though it was fortunate that missions with the League had finally started to die down. Bruce needed rest and better work-life balance. He had looked forward to coming home and spending a week with his ward, feeling as though he'd hardly seen his little bird the entire month. Even Bruce would admit he felt he had been a rather lax parent over the past few weeks, hardly managing to spare even two minutes of time for the boy.

Satisfied that the matter was seemingly settled, Bruce went back to his own dinner. But the quiet didn't last long. It was not even a minute later before the tapping resumed, the tempo faster now and somehow much more annoying than before.

Bruce put his silverware down. “Dick,” he began, his voice holding no trace of patience. “Stop that.” The chastisement came out more severe than intended, but he wasted no time on regret and pinned the young man with another steely scowl. “Is there something wrong with your food?”

Dick looked startled as he glanced up again, suddenly seeming to realise his fault. “N-no.” He placed his fork carefully on his plate before pushing the plate away. “Guess I'm just not hungry.”

 _Very odd_ , he thought again. His little Robin was always hungry, he was a growing teenage boy, after all. The kid practically inhaled every meal set in front of him and then asked for seconds.

Bruce squinted at him, “What have you eaten today?”

Dick shifted uncomfortably in his chair but remained silent.

“ _Dick_.” He pressed, critically.

“I went out with Wally.” The boy finally admitted, sinking an inch down in his seat. He looked guilty, but it explained a thing or two. _Wallace_. _Ah, yes. The Speedster._ That boy could eat an entire house out of home in one hour alone and Dick had probably, _stupidly_ , tried to keep up.

Bruce interlocked his fingers and rested his chin on them, narrowing his eyes further. Dick looked very uncomfortable under the scrutiny, only risking one hesitant glance up at his guardian, to which the older man saw his eyes widen imperceptibly before jumping quickly back to the half-eaten food on his plate.

“And where did you two go?” he asked, the question loaded. Dick could already see where this was going. The young man squirmed in his seat.

“The mall.”

“And what did you two _eat_ at the mall?”

“Hot dogs.”

Bruce sighed, wondering if this was an experience all parents had to deal with, “How many hot dogs did you have, Dick?”

“I don't know…” came the mumbled reply. The boy looked mildly ill from the interrogation. “Maybe too many.”

The older man reclined in his chair and dropped his hands back to the table, “How many is _too_ many?”

The answer came quieter than the last, barely a soft squeak, “Maybe six or seven?”

Finally, Bruce closed his eyes briefly and took a deep breath in through the nose, counting to ten before exhaling and opening them again. Dick looked ashamed, “I'm sorry…” he mumbled pre-emptively.

The older man pointedly fixed his ward with a look of disappointment, “Yes, I'm sure you are.” The words came out tight, sticking in his throat, but he laced them with displeasure, maintaining the firm edge. “But you can apologise to Alfred when you scrape off your scraps into the garbage.”

Dick took that as his cue, sliding off his chair miserably.

With a weary feeling sinking deep into his bones, Bruce watched his little Robin's hangdog form retreat toward the kitchen, plate in hand. Perhaps his tone had been a little too harsh, the boy had certainly appeared remorseful and penitent, but he would need to keep a more perceptive eye on where and with whom his ward went out with during his spare time. Wallace was a great friend for his boy, but he sensed that the two of them could get into a lot of trouble together if Batman wasn't vigilantly watchful. It would seem his month of absences had left him a fair amount of clean up to do.

~

The next morning started better.

Dick came bounding down the stairs brightly, somehow already bursting with energy despite it not yet being eight o'clock. Bruce needed his morning cup of joe before he could even feel one quarter as awake as his little bird apparently did, but fortunately Alfred had a steaming hot coffee prepared and ready by the time Bruce was seated with the morning newspaper.

The boy across the table tore into his buttered croissant and orange juice, happily chatting away about the list of classes he had at school and the older man made sure to nod at the appropriate times, even if he wasn't wholly listening.

“―and I got an 'A' back on my English exam,” Dick was saying between mouthfuls, informing Bruce about everything he had missed throughout the past month. The boy did seem to be attempting to fill him in all at once, starting with the highlights reel. “So I'm hoping my assignment goes just as well―Bruce? Are you listening?”

The older man lowered the paper and took a sip from his bitter black coffee, “Of course,” he said. “You received an 'A' on your exam. I'm very proud of you.” The comment was token of course, but under the spotlight of praise the little Robin beamed back a smile, puffing up a little with delight at the recognition. Bruce returned to his paper, checking the stocks and setting aside the crossword section for Alfred to do later.

“Anyway,” the young man continued, checking his watch,“As I was saying―oh shoot―!” Bruce glanced up. “I'm gonna be late!” Before the older man could really register what was going on, Dick had already slung his bag over his shoulder and was bolting for the door, an aborted half-wave and a reverberant _'goodbye!'_ accompanying him on his way.

The front door slammed shut behind him and the house went quiet.

Alfred appeared later to clear away the young man's breakfast dishes, but the room was still abruptly silent and almost _too calm_ in the wake of Dick's leave. It was almost unnerving whenever the young man left a room, Bruce felt. It was like his little bird took the sun out with him because the house always felt colder and lonelier when he wasn't in it.

“He's happy you're home,” Said Alfred, thoughtfully, taking the crossword on his way out―and Bruce could feel those perceptive eyes gauging him. “He's been very quiet over the past month. I think he's missed you.”

Bruce just took another long sip from his coffee and went back to the paper.

The rest of the morning he spent either in the gym, working on his form, or in the workshop tinkering with Batman's utility belt―fixing an issue he'd discovered with the grappling line. Distracted by the work, time passed him by unchecked and he was only alerted to it again when Alfred came down to deliver his lunch.

Bruce rubbed his stinging eyes and sat back as he massaged the headache out of his temples, informing the old butler that he would prefer lunch in the sitting room for today. It would give him a break and he would be able to snag Robin's utility belt on the way back down to make improvements on that as well.

After settling himself beside the warm fire in the sitting room, Bruce began to chow down on his lunch, allowing his mind to wander as he ate. What was his little bird up to right now? Probably studying, the boy had very good grades and Bruce pushed him to maintain them, though he needn't bother―Dick was bright and always eager to please his teachers, peers and friends. His little bird made him proud, both in school and when he went out as Robin. He'd saved Bruce's neck any number of times when a mission had gone askew and he was very dedicated to the work. It was a shame they hadn't gone on any mission together over the last month, but Bruce could change that now. He had the time.

“Shall I take your dishes, sir?” Inquired Alfred, startling him from his thoughts. The old man stood in the doorway to the sitting room, standing proper, and Bruce sat back in the old statesman armchair, nodding and thanking the butler.

Once the dishes were cleared, Bruce decided it was time to collect Robin's utility belt. The grappling line material, Bruce had discovered, was susceptible to snapping when the weather got too cold, but it was fortunate he had discovered this during a training session rather than on a mission, as things could go down hill predictably quick when their equipment wasn't in top shape. They weren't Meta-Human's. They couldn't rely on their powers like others in the Justice League, only on their quick-wits, strategies and gear.

Bruce followed the old butler down the hall until he reached the door to Dick's room, slightly ajar.

Giving it the barest nudge, the door swung open to reveal the room, the old hinges protesting and groaning all the way.

The sight inside shocked Bruce.

It was a mess. Like a bomb had gone off inside. Well, perhaps not. But there were clothes covering every spare inch of the floor, the bed-covers pulled back―the bed unmade. Robin's gear was thrown haphazardly across the boy's study desk, a batarang discarded atop a chemistry textbook. Shoes blocked the entranceway like Dick had absently booby-trapped it, and there were empty chocolate wrappers and other snack foods littering the windowsill and sitting upon the piles of clothes―clean ones intermixed with dirty so that Bruce could not tell which was which.

This was… not normal.

Perhaps for any other teenager, yes. But not Dick. The little Robin wasn't _meticulous_ about cleanliness, but the boy never failed to put his shoes away in their correct place either. There were never clothes left on the floor and the bed was always made, plus Bruce had never seen trash discarded anywhere other than the bin.

“Alfred.” He called out firmly, but quietly. At the other end of the hall, the butler had just reached the top of the stairs, but at the sound of his name he shuffled back to Bruce's position with haste. No noise left the old man's mouth as he turned to see the state of Dick's room, but Bruce did note the way his brow furrowed and his lips pressed into a thin line.

It wasn't long before he rounded on Bruce, his eyes sparkling with perturbation, “Is there something I should know about?” The old man asked, sounding rather accusatory, as though Bruce should know why Dick's room looked like a tip. Perhaps Bruce _should_ know why, but he wracked his brain and still came up with nothing. There was nothing strange about Dick this morning, the boy had seemed his usual, cheerful self, and last night… well, his little bird had just had a little too much fun with his friend. The hot dog saga was just a mistake, Dick had simply gone overboard without realising. There was nothing he could think of to explain this mess. How had he not noticed this? No, he knew why. He hadn't been here for the entire month. Anything could have happened to his little bird, Bruce hadn't been here to deal with it. For the first time ever he felt left out, Dick always told him what was going on and if this was the fall out, well. Something was absolutely off.

Bruce shook his head, feeling a little lost and unnerved, “I don't know, Alfred….” He didn't like the feeling, it was confusing, alarming. Had something slipped under his radar? Was Dick struggling somehow? “He's been the same, I… I haven't noticed any change.”

The butler's face relaxed somewhat, searching for a lie in the words but finding none, “Then I'm sure he'll come to you.” The man departed with, a cryptic expression lingering there.

Still, Bruce didn't like it. He felt… disturbed, disconcerted and even a little distressed. So, as much as it made him uncomfortable to do so, he called the only person he could think of.

~

Clark snorted and then laughed, “He's a teenage boy! What were you expecting?”

Bruce just about growled down the telephone line, feeling defeated and exasperated by Superman's blasé candour. The guy always knew how to push Batman's buttons like no other, but at the same time he trusted the Super with both his life and secret identity, which made him part of a very exclusive club.

“Dick's not usually like this,” Bruce replied sourly, rubbing at a sore spot on his forehead. Maybe calling Superman hadn't been his best idea after all, he could feel another headache brewing. “I've never seen his room in such a state.”

Clark guffawed, but this time Bruce heard another telephone ring in the background. The man must be at work, this probably hadn't the best time to call. “Really?” Kent chortled. “I've never seen Conner's room come even close to _clean_. Sometimes it seems as though the boy doesn't know what a wardrobe is. I mean, I know he _does_ , I introduced him to it on his first day! But still, it's the cleanest part of his room―along with the empty laundry basket, that is.” This wasn't helping.

It was sometimes strange for Bruce to remember the day Superboy had been rescued from the secret, underground Cadmus lab. Batman had stood to the side, watching a million emotions cross over Superman's face as he digested the knowledge that he now had a clone, possibly evil for all they knew at the time. Clark had looked haunted and scared, afraid and alone. There was nothing anyone could say or do to help him that day, but some part of Bruce had gone out to the guy―he couldn't imagine suddenly discovering he had a teenage son. Dick was difficult enough, he constantly felt he was screwing up with one half-normal teen as it was. A clone, a blank slate, was another matter altogether.

Yet, Clark, ever the hero, had taken the kid on, to Batman's―and the entire Justice Leauge's―great surprise, but then again that was the kind of man Clark was. The clone had taken one look at him and Superman had been hooked. He was that kid's dad now, through and through, there was nobody and nothing that could take that away from him. The teen had gone from _'Clone'_ to _'Conner'_ in less than a day and Superman had gone from _'Bachelor'_ to _'Dad'_ in the same amount of time. Yes, Conner was a great kid and a valuable team member for Robin. The two seemed to get along like a house on fire these days, despite a rocky beginning, but Batman contributed Conner's increasing level-headedness to Superman's unwavering commitment to the boy. Clark was really taking good care of the kid, working with him on his anger issues, helping him control his strength. He made a good dad.

Just lousy with parenting advice.

“You're taking this too lightly,” Bruce barked back. “This is serious.”

Clark only dismissed him with another snigger, “I'm sure it's not.” He contributed lightly. “But if you're that concerned, why not just ask him? Talk to him. I read _a lot_ of parenting books when Conner first came home and that is the best piece of advice I got from all of them.”

Bruce huffed, “I will. Talk to him, I mean. When he gets home.”

Another snort came down the line, “A talk, Bruce.” Clark commented. “Not an interrogation. He's your kid, not a criminal.”

“I know.” Bruce snapped in response. His head hurt. Superman made his head hurt and… teenagers were… not his forte.

“Look,” Kent sighed, his voice more earnest than before. “If you're that concerned about him, I'll ask Conner. They're team mates, right, maybe he knows something?”

Bruce spoke without thinking, “Unlikely. Anything Conner knows, I do too.”

Clark's disapproval was clear over the phone, but if there had been any confusion, the disappointment in his voice made it plain. “You're his _dad_.”

Bruce wasted no time in correcting him, “Guardian, actually.”

Immediately, the words were dismissed by the other man, “Whatever.” Said Clark. “Same thing.” He moved on before Bruce could contend the issue. “Have you considered Dick might be going through something he doesn't want you to know about?”

Bruce pursed his lips, “What?”

“ _I don't know!_ ” Clark huffed, exasperated. “They're teenagers. They're a different breed entirely to you and I. Sometimes Conner does stuff and for the life of me I can't reason why he thinks it'll be a good idea – like the time he put strawberry jam, pickles and avocado in a sandwich.” Superman went quiet for a second on the other end of the phone, as though a shudder had just run down his spine from the mere thought of such a Frankenstein creation.

Bruce wanted to point out that Clark was, in fact, a different species altogether, but another voice rang down the phone line with an acerbic abrasiveness that was a needle to his temple for his headache.

“ _Kent, stop_ _wasting_ _company time for personal business!”_ Yelled a distinctly male voice. Not somebody Bruce wanted to meet any time soon, he decided.

“Sorry, sir.” Clark's replied, sounding chastised. His was voice much clearer than the other, the phone still obviously pressed to his ear. “Won't happen again.”

The other person screeched, _“You're damn right it won't.”_

Bruce rolled his eyes, _charming man_ , he thought as Clark's voice travelled back through once more, this time much more subdued.

“Sorry,” he apologised again, this time to Bruce. “I gotta go.”

Bruce waved him off, “It's fine. I'm sorry I called you during work hours.”

“Good luck with Dick,” Superman returned. “I hope it sorts itself out.” Then, cheekily, “If not, I've still got those parenting books.” The line abruptly went dead.

Bruce put the phone down with a sigh and pressed the pads of his palms into his eyes.

~

Dick didn't return from school immediately that night, Bruce knew he wouldn't. Robin and his team had training at Mount Justice HQ and Black Canary would be putting them through their paces, testing their effectiveness as a team. For the amount of time they'd spent together, Batman thought the younger members were working as a unit quite cohesively. Sure, there were some spots here and there, but trust came more easily to the teenagers and they were all much better friends than their adult counterparts. They were less guarded around others of their own age. Batman certainly couldn't imagine himself inviting Green Lantern out for a casual drink, they weren't _friends,_ just co-workers―but Dick had found a family in his team and for that Bruce was glad. Each of the younger members had their own issues, but having others around with problems not dissimilar to theirs made them feel less isolated and alone. Dick had certainly struggled until he'd met Wallace. The speedster made Dick feel less like a freak, Superman had previously recounted a similar tale to him as well regarding Conner when he'd first joined the team.

After dinner, a pleasantly silent meal, Bruce went to arrange himself a drink from the liquor cabinet.

 _Huh. That's very odd_ , he thought, staring at the empty space that he could've sworn had held a brand new bottle of scotch. Perhaps Alfred had moved it while cleaning and had forgotten to return it. Bruce hunted the cabinet but could find no trace of the missing alcohol.

He was on his knees, bent down to the lowest shelf when Alfred walked into the room, “Sir?” He said, confused. “Can I help you find something?”

Bruce pulled his head out of the bottom shelf, leaning back on his knees, “Actually, yes.” He replied, standing. His knees cracked and ached with protest at the movement. “The bottle of scotch, here―” he pointed to the empty space. “What happened to it?”

Alfred frowned and peered closer, running a cursory glance over the cabinet in search of the missing bottle, “I'm not sure, sir.”

Bruce huffed, “You didn't move it?”

Alfred shook his head, “No, sir.”

A frown crinkled the Batman's brow, but he shook his head and dismissed the thought.

“Never mind,” he said, reaching for the whiskey in lieu, unstopping it. “I'll have this one instead. Thank you Alfred.” The old butler just nodded at the dismissal and disappeared once more, looking quite puzzled as he left.

Bruce took his drink into the lounge and sat by the fire, watching the flames before passing a glance at the window, the whiskey warming him from the inside as he stared out at the night blanketing the outside world. The chill of fall had well settled into the earth and streets of Gotham. The cold gripping the city tightly in its grasp as it did every year, the old maple outside the window rustling in objection when the frigid wind blew through its falling leaves, the red and orange a swirl of colour during the autumnal days.

Halloween was fast approaching―Dick's favourite time of year, he remembered, thinking back to the first time the old mansion had ever been decorated with spooky adornments. Dick had loved it. He'd been much smaller then, even more of a waif than now, and it had been the first year after the death of his parents. The little boy had just barely turned nine. Bruce remembered taking him trick or treating, coming home and dumping out all of the candy they had collected in his little plastic pumpkin basket, watching the child-like awe in his eyes as they bulged out of his head at the sight of so much candy… _“_ _This is all for me?”_ he'd asked, staring up at his guardian as though it couldn't possibly be true. _“Sure is, chum. All yours.”_ Bruce had reassured him with a clap on his shoulder as Dick had turned back to the mountain of sugar, hardly daring to believe it. The funniest part had been the boy's costume. His little bird and Alfred had conspired together and when Dick bounded down the stairs in a replica Batman costume, well. Bruce had certainly smiled at that. The boy had preened and glowed with pride all night with every comment on his costume as they'd gone door to door, his eyes shyly flashing up under his eyelashes to meet Bruce's each time somebody complimented it. Dick had gripped his hand tightly the entire night, never daring to let go as they made their way through the neighbourhood. It was one of his fondest memories, but…

Bruce sighed, taking a sip from the glass tumbler in his hand. What had happened to that little boy? Had he just grown up or was it something else?

The decision to wait up for his little bird was an easy one, he would be patient tonight, he would not allow himself to be provoked into sending the boy up to bed before the situation was both understood and resolved. Whatever problem Dick was going through, they would sort it out together. Then, Bruce would lay out the rules again firmly. Not harshly, but just so that Dick understood what was expected of him―at the very least he expected his room to be clean!

Except. Bruce felt something pinch at his heart as Clark's earlier words rang through his head. Almost since time immemorial he'd wanted Dick to treat this house as his home, Bruce as… as _family_ , but now that Dick _was_ acting like a regular teenager, he was completely freaking out. The man pinched the bridge of his nose, the conundrum baffling him, “It was so much easier when you were nine…” he muttered to himself, setting his drink down on the sideboard with a clink.

There came a chuckle from the doorway, “That it was, Master Bruce.”

“Alfred―” the man startled. The butler stood in the doorway and raised a calm hand, always the picture of responsibility and reliability.

“My apologies,” he said, looking contrite. “I did not mean to startle you.”

Bruce twisted in his chair to better face the older man, “No, that's not―you didn't.” He glanced up at the clock on the wall and was shocked to find it almost midnight. The time had disappeared on him again. And where was Robin?

Alfred didn't look remotely convinced, but he brushed it off. “I'm off to bed now. Good night, sir.”

Bruce nodded, “Good night, Alfred.”

After a nod, the butler moved to withdraw from the room and said, “Teenagers are troublesome creatures, but very rewarding when you get them right.” Then, the old man had switched off the lights and was gone, leaving Bruce wondering if, in fact, Alfred was perhaps even more mysterious than the Dark Knight.

~

The fire flickered down as the night went on and he didn't bother to replace the burning logs in the hearth as he drank what remained of his whiskey. The heat in the room went as the wood burnt down to coals and it was barely smouldering away by the time he heard the front door―opening, closing, clicking shut, locking. Something in his stomach curdled as the knot in his chest released. At least his kid was home, safe.

Bruce stood and moved to entranceway of the lounge which connected to the hall via a large ornate arch. In the dark Bruce knew he wouldn't be seen there, but he could clearly make out Robin's silhouette thanks to the light of the moon. From his movements the boy appeared unharmed, he seemed to be in no distress… he was fine.

Bruce finally spoke as Dick started making his way towards the staircase, “So, what time do you call this?” The boy just about jumped five feet in the air as the older man flicked on the lights, flooding the lounge and part of the hallway with brightness.

Dick momentarily froze, resembling a deer caught headlights, his eyes wide, jaw dropped until he made the astute observation, “You're awake.”

Bruce's reply was firm, “I am.” He waited a moment for an explanation, but his patience was thinning by the second. When none was forthcoming he added, “Where have you been, Dick?”

The young man dropped his gaze to his feet, shuffling in his converse. He looked as though he didn't trust himself to speak and Bruce wasn't one-hundred percent sure he wanted to hear the answer anyway.

“With… the team.”

Bruce's eyes narrowed.

“Training with Black Canary finished hours ago. Where have you been since?”

God, he was making a mess of this.

 _A talk,_ Clark's words rang in his ears again. _Not an interrogation._ Bruce had to clench his jaw in order to bite down on the growl threatening to escape his throat.

“With Conner,” the boy supplied, shifting from one foot to the other. “And Wally.”

Counting to ten, Bruce took a deep breath in and then exhaled, slowly. He took a step closer to the kid and Dick didn't move so he took that as a good sign. The boy looked unsteady, swaying on the spot and, as the man closed the gap between them, he quickly figured out why.

Bruce saw red.

“ _Dick_.” The single word was sharp, cutting through the air precisely, like a throwing knife. “Have you been _drinking?”_ A hot burst of rage stabbed at his chest and settled there, bubbling, boiling. Out of all the irresponsible things―

The little bird's head snapped up so fast that he just about looked like a puppet on a string, his body going rigid, every muscle lined with tension. His chest heaved as his breath silently picked up, but he didn't dare move under Bruce's scrutiny, just swallowed hard and diverted his eyes to some place past the man's shoulder. The smell on his breath was all too familiar. Bruce had hoped it not the case when he'd seen the bottle missing, but the evidence was irrefutable.

“You took my scotch.” It was not a question.

Dick licked his lips, looking for a moment as though he was about to reply, but instead, at the last second, dipping his head and screwing up his hands into fists by his side. Bruce sighed inwardly, too tired to pin the boy under any look of wrath when he wasn't even looking. It would be a wasted effort. But he maintained the dangerous, icy edge in his voice, “Why did you take it, Dick?”

The boy shrugged.

 _No, not good enough,_ thought Bruce as he gripped the boy's shoulders in his hands. Dick still didn't move and the man had to resist the violent urge to shake the answer out of him. _This wasn't his little bird. This wasn't his Robin, he would never do something like this._

In one abruptly overwhelming moment, Bruce decided he couldn't stand it anymore. He wasn't angry or mad about the alcohol, he was just afraid. Scared. _What was going on with his little Robin?_ This wasn't like Dick at all. The boy was a straight 'A', straight-laced student. This wasn't Kent's boy, this was _his_ and something was definitely _wrong_.

Bruce yanked Dick forwards, all but crushing him to his chest with the embrace, tightly wrapping his arms around his little bird and pressing his face to the crown of hair atop his head as he wrinkled his nose at the pungent smell wafting off him―the boy smelled like cinnamon shampoo and a liquor store, the latter being a new and rather unpleasant scent for the young man. Why did it suddenly feel as though the boy was slipping through his fingers like sand?

The sudden, unexpected movement elicited a short, sharp squeak from Dick as he was manhandled, but he didn't pull away as Bruce lead him to the lounge and sat him down on the ancient, faded sofa.

Dick sloughed his schoolbag to the floor and Bruce sat down beside him, taking a fortifying breath as he did. He was _well_ out of his league here.

Sighing softly, Bruce examined the boy's face, “What's going on with you, chum?” He asked, keeping his voice as even and gentle as he could manage. “You're intoxicated, your room is a mess. Why?”

Dick studied his backpack intently, but gave no reply.

Bruce wanted to huff his frustration, but with difficulty he tried a different route and changed tack, “Are you… having trouble at school?” He didn't _think_ it was that, the boy had talked endlessly about his high grades just this morning. Dear god he wished the boy was that chatty now.

Dick just shook his head.

“The team?” He tried again, “You're not having problems with the team, are you?”

The boy frowned and shook his head again, this time chewing his lip. Bruce could sense he was close to cracking it, _if only the kid would just_ ―

“It's not that,” Dick broke in bitterly, finally stealing a glance up at his mentor. “You. You wouldn't understand.”

Bruce felt his entire face give way to something more relaxed, the worry lines smoothing out. “Try me.” He said, softly.

Dick puffed out a breath filled with frustration, but then seemed to deflate with it as he hesitated over his words. Bruce held his tongue and for his patience he was rewarded with, “It's _stupid_.”

“It's not.” Bruce immediately countered. If it was making his kid steal from his liquor cabinet it wasn't stupid. It was important to Dick, therefore it was important to Bruce.

The reply returned as a whisper, “It is.”

“Let me be the judge of that, okay?” Bruce tried, patting his ward's knee. Dick didn't look convinced, but didn't argue back.

The words that tumbled out of his little bird's mouth did so in an even quieter whisper than before, “You haven't… you weren't _here_.”

Bruce was confused, “What do you mean, Dick? What do you mean I wasn't here? Here for what?”

Dick exploded like a firework, though the words came out all slurred, “For the past month!” He shot back. “You said you'd be here―you said you'd make time! You promised you'd come to the science fair, that you'd help me with my high school application, that you wouldn't miss my birthday. But you weren't here for any of it.”

Dick swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand as Bruce's tight throat constricted. His little Robin was trying hard not to cry, the alcohol in his system bringing the boy's emotion closer to the surface than usual.

“And I know it's _selfish,_ ” he continued. “There are so many other people that need you too, that need saving. I know I'm being greedy, but I just thought―maybe it was me? You seem to have time for everybody else… just…not me.”

Bruce felt dumb for not putting two and two together before, but he floundered for a moment too long and ended up watching Dick cringe in the silence, “I told you it was stupid.” He trailed off, heat colouring his cheeks.

“…And that's why your room's a mess?” Bruce asked, interjecting a moment later with astonishment. “Why you've deliberately been annoying me at dinner? Why you went and tried to make yourself sick on hot dogs? Why you took my scotch and got drunk on it?”

The last sentence accidentally had some heat, but Dick just shrugged dejectedly before responding, “I thought… if you were mad at me, then at least you were looking at me.” And then quieter, “At least you wouldn't be ignoring me.”

With those few words alone, the origami heart in Bruce's hands suddenly felt irreparably torn. As though Dick's words were scissors, cutting through his mistakes until they were made plain and obvious, as though he should have seen from the start that his folding would leave Bruce with an oddly twisted, strangely shaped work. It was like Dick was pointing out all his flaws, his inability to read instructions―see here, this origami heart can be passed onto the one you love, make sure you raise it right! _Please note, abandoned kids will have abandonment issues, don't leave them by themselves for too long!_

Bruce was an idiot. He'd been so consumed with the problems of Gotham and the Justice League that he hadn't seen the problems brewing at home.

“Dick,” he began delicately, the pain in his chest spreading like a deep bruise. “Look at me, chum.”

The boy shrunk in on himself, his shoulders up to his ears, waiting for the punishment like he was waiting for a slap. It was clear that his little bird didn't want too, but he complied with the request nonetheless, the look of fear in his eyes momentarily stealing Bruce's breath away. Despite how winded he suddenly felt, the older man pushed on, wondering how on earth their relationship had become like this― _how Dick could even wear that expression_ ―like he thought Bruce would reject him after so long. Did the boy not know he was Bruce's entire world?

“You're not selfish,” he said, pushing a gentle smile onto his lips as he raised a hand to tuck a stray lock behind his little bird's ear. Dick twitched at the touch, flinching and stiffening, but Bruce didn't pull away as he continued, just allowed his hand to hover around the boy's cheek, carefully swiping his thumb over Dick's temple and curling his fingers around the back of his head. “You're not greedy. You're allowed to ask for things, Dick. You're allowed to _complain_.”

The boy shot him a dubious look, but Bruce hushed him before he could voice any argument.

“You're a good kid and you'll make an even better man than me when you're grown, but until then, _tell_ me if you're feeling lonely. Between the Justice League and Gotham things can get overwhelming, but you _always come first_. Okay?”

Dick still didn't look convinced and shook his head, “I _can't_ come first.” He said, and if Bruce wasn't mistaken, there was an edge of bitterness to his words. “I know I can't. There are other people out there than need you more than I do and―”

“No,” interjected Bruce quickly, lowering his hand to Dick's shoulder and giving it a quick squeeze. “You are and always will be my first priority.”

The words barely made it out as a whisper, “What about Batman?” Dick sounded scared to hear the answer. Bruce just gave his shoulder another squeeze.

“You are and always will be my first priority.” He repeated, emphasising each word with more weight than before. And then Bruce saw him for a split second. _His little bird, his little Robin_. The boy's fingers twitched and he glanced down at his knees and then back up at Bruce and then back to his knees again.

“Okay.” He replied simply, a small, irrepressible smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Okay.” Bruce agreed and then stood. Dick's eyes followed him as he went.

The older man picked up the boy's backpack and slung it over his shoulder, “Bedtime.” He said firmly, leaving no room for question or debate.

His little Robin went easily, though Bruce kept a firm grip on the boy the entire way to the kid's bedroom. Dick was more than a little unsteady during the journey up the stairs and every faltering step sent the older man's heart into his throat. There was no way he was ever letting Dick drink again, even after he was twenty-one.

Bruce hung Dick's backpack securely in its place on the hook affixed to the back of the boy's door and then navigated the minefield that was the state of his kid's room. Dick had already crawled into bed, fully clothed―he wasn't sure the boy had even noticed he was still in jeans, possibly too intoxicated to care―and Bruce settled his little bird into bed, pulling up the covers all the way to his chin.

“Get some sleep,” he ordered, to which the boy nodded tiredly, already yawning. “I'll see you in the morning.”

Bruce sat on the edge of the bed and watched his little bird fall asleep in record time, recognising the slow deep breathing of someone who had nodded off. And then he stayed a minute more before making his way out, leaving the boy to his dreams.

Although Bruce was shatteringly tired, the man pulled out his phone and dialled Clark's number. It was almost two in the morning now, but he had a funny feeling Superman would be up.

It picked up on the first ring, “Hello?” The man sounded breathless, but hopeful.

“Clark.” Bruce dead-paned.

“Bruce?” Superman's voice turned to surprise, as he'd known it would. “What's going on?”

“Is Conner home yet?” He asked, maintaining the stony demeanour. It wasn't hard, he was incredibly tired.

Superman's tone suddenly went sharp. _Panicked_ , Bruce's mind supplied.

“No,” he said. “I haven't seen him since this morning! Do you know where he is? Is he with you? Please tell me you've seen him, I've been out all night and I haven't found a trace of him.” The man was practically tripping over his words and Bruce could relate to the undercurrent of gut-wrenching fear he heard in Clark's voice.

“Apparently he was with Robin and Kid Flash up until recently,” Bruce shared with a sigh, he sensed Superman had the phone as physically close to his ear as he could get it. “Dick stole a bottle of my scotch and the three of them decided to drink it. Go home, I have a feeling he'll be there shortly.”

The silence on the other end of the phone spoke volumes and when Clark replied again his voice was hard and indurate, “Thank you for telling me, Bruce.”

Inwardly, Bruce felt a pang of sympathy for the other man. Despite how many parenting books Clark claimed to have read, he was still relatively new at this.

“One other thing,” Batman said, knowing this could wait, but since he had Superman on the line anyway―“Would you be able to do me a favour and stick close to Gotham next month? I… need a break.”

Clark sounded surprised, but he answered with a, “Sure thing.”

Bruce toyed with the words on his tongue, but inevitably the unsolicited advice left his lips unchecked anyway. “Go easy on your kid, Kent. He'll suffer enough with the hangover in the morning.” He said, not totally sure the boy _could_ get a hangover, what with him being half Kryptonian, but yelling at Conner sure wasn't going to help Clark in the long run. It was sage advice.

He could almost see the sharp nod, “Right.” The other man said shortly, and then, “Thanks again.”

Bruce hung up.

 _Bed_.

~

Neither Alfred nor Bruce woke Dick the next day when the boy missed breakfast by sleeping straight through it. The kid was lucky it was Saturday, but then again, perhaps the three musketeers had planned their shenanigans on a Friday night for this exact reason.

Bruce was just sitting down for lunch when his little bird appeared in the dinning room, his hair mussed up, still dressed in the same clothes as yesterday, looking pale and a little worse for wear. The boy slid into his chair, already looking miserable.

“Good afternoon,” Bruce said stiffly, but loudly, to the boy as Alfred set down the pea and ham soup in front of him, and he nodded when the old butler inquired under his breath as to whether he should bring soup out for Dick as well.

“Feeling well today are we?” He asked. There was no need to use such a booming voice, Bruce knew well, but the boy had to learn his actions had consequences. A hangover was one of them. The kid was lucky he hadn't thrown up during the night, although that was probably why he looked so sickly.

“Good afternoon…” Dick mumbled back, looking nauseous as he sank into his chair. “Please don't shout.” He pressed a hand to his head for a moment.

Bruce quirked his lips and took pity on him, lowering his voice, “I trust you've already taken something for the pain?”

The boy shook his head and then winced when he realised it was a bad idea. When Alfred returned with the boy's lunch, Bruce had him go find some painkillers and Dick shot him an openly grateful look from the other end of the table.

After taking the painkillers with a glass of water Dick finally found the courage to speak up.

“H-how much trouble am I in?” He asked quietly and, Bruce had to hand it to him, the boy was bold.

The man hummed and slurped at his soup before answering, “How much trouble do you _think_ you are in?” He asked.

Dick pouted and dropped his eyes, “A lot.” He whispered, a statement. Bruce couldn't help the smirk that graced him at the comically woebegone sight.

“Well, since you asked,” the man began, setting down his spoon and staring down the length of the table with lasting amusement at the doleful little bird. “You are definitely grounded. School, training and then straight home. No exceptions.”

Robin nodded at that, expecting it, “For how long?”

Bruce thought. “Two months.” He decided.

Dick's jaw dropped at the length, but he snapped it shut again just as quickly and accepted the punishment. Alfred sniggered silently from the doorway.

But Bruce wasn't done just yet, “You are also suspended from missions for a month―but Kid Flash and Superboy will _also_ be off the team for that length too once I contact the Justice League about your little jaunt last night.”

The boy blanched, “You're going to tell the League?” He quavered with a wince.

“Indubitably.”

Dick mumbled something under his breath, but Bruce didn't hear it. Instead he pressed on, “Lastly,” he quirked a diverted eyebrow to the boy's pitiful grumblings. “You will be spending every evening with me―” his little Robin's head shot up and he looked momentarily woozy from the action, “for the rest of the month. I will be taking some time off the League and Superman has agreed to watch out for Gotham during my time away.”

“What?” The word fell from Dick's mouth and Bruce thought the boy resembled a goldfish with his jaw hanging open at such an angle.

“My priorities have been backwards for too long, I left them unchecked.” Bruce admitted solemnly, feeling like a failure for a parent. “I won't do that again. By the end of the month you'll be sick of me.”

The face his little bird pulled was hard to read, but there was no doubt he was smiling into his pea and ham soup. He looked happy, which made Bruce happy. The older man found a smile of his own tugging at the corners of his mouth before he schooled his expression and instructed Dick to eat his lunch, returning to his own food as well. Despite the lengthy punishments the kid was about to endure, he didn't seem particularly upset about them, in fact, the opposite, and over the course of lunch Bruce found himself glancing up more and more frequently to catch the tail end of his little bird staring at him beatifically before he went back to eating at his soup.

 _There's my little bird_ , thought Batman gladly, catching Dick glancing up at him happily for the umpteenth time. _My little Robin_.


	2. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally a chapter in its own separate work, My Little Bird (Why Don't You Sing?), but I decided to take that one down and just include this chapter as an epilogue to the original story.

Bruce had never particularly liked his birthday. Not that there was any real reason for this, he'd just never had a  _happy_ birthday―not since the death of his parents at least. The day had just always existed, like a chore or unfortunate person one had to deal with.

In the corner of the front room he waited patiently, quietly ensconced in the comfort of his favourite old armchair and warming his cold extremities by the crackling fire, the courageous flames battling back the near-freezing temperatures that pervaded the midwinter evening. Absently, he swished the tumbler of clear liquid in his right hand, glassily contemplating the hearth and neglecting to notice the little bubbles rising and popping on the surface playfully, fizzing as though they could be the more devilish cousin of lemonade―the tonic subsuming in the gin. Against his tongue, the bitterness of the drink was refreshing and he sipped at it slowly, lingering in the delicious warmth of the front lounge as he waited for his little bird to make it down the stairs.

Steadily, the year had progressed forth, each day rolling over into the next. Nobody would rightly deny that November's chill had now not well set in. Thanksgiving was barely a week off and, unbeknownst to Alfred, Bruce had already risked life and limb to sneak a peek at the worlds most carefully guarded list, detailing all the foods he would find on the Thanksgiving table this year―but that was a fact he would certainly carry to his grave. If the man ever found out Bruce knew where he hid his culinary secrets and recipes, well, he'd likely get lukewarm pea soup and frozen chicken thighs for the following six months.

When the clock on the fireplace mantle struck suddenly, its chime ringing out, Bruce's head jerked up with a frown as he was pulled from his comfortable reverie.  _If Dick took much longer they were going to be late,_ he mused, spending only a moment more watching the flames lick at the dark hearth of the fireplace before shaking his head and downing the rest of his drink in one.

Setting the glass on the sideboard, Bruce stood, making sure to pick up and shrug on his dinner jacket before popping his head out into the hall and calling for the boy up the stairs, “If you don't hurry we'll miss our reservation.”

A clamorous sound echoed back down in response, piquing his curiosity and a twitch of amusement.  _F_ _or an acrobat,_ _his little bird_ _could sure be clumsy sometimes_ _._

The man moved out into the hall and took ahold of the mahogany balustrade as he rolled his eyes and pursed his lips, beginning his ascent to the landing and then journeying upwards to the second floor, only stopping once he was outside the slightly ajar door that cordoned Dick's room. He gave a soft knock but didn't bother waiting for a response before pushing it open all the way.

A faint flutter of fondness filled Bruce's emotionally abstruse chest as the door swung open to reveal his ward, mostly ready, but apparently struggling one-handed with the clasp on his watch. The sight was… domestic. No matter how old Dick grew to be, seeing the boy would always summon something parental in him, he knew―even if it was only currently due to Dick's inability to put on a watch.

“I've been calling you.” He said softly, resting a hand against the doorframe and suppressing the churlish curl of pleasure in his stomach at surprising his little bird, whose back was to him when he stepped into the room.

The boy's eyes flew to the mirror with a start to immediately spot Bruce in its reflection―whom Dick send a tight, apologetic smile before he finally snapped together the clasp of his watch.

“Sorry,” he said, taking the briefest moment to give his appearance a once-over in the mirror before bounding across the room, coming to a stop in front of his guardian. “I'm ready to go now.”

A shadow of a smile pulled at the corners of Bruce's lips as he reached out and straightened the boy's bow-tie, smoothing down the lapels of Dick's dinner jacket and stepping back to eye him critically before clapping him on the shoulder, “Perhaps you should have listened to me for once and left the mission to your team-mates―they were perfectly capable of handling the problem on their own.” His young ward looked handsome with his hair carefully styled and gelled in such a way so as to look effortlessly windswept, and it was nice to see him wearing the watch Bruce had given him last Christmas―the thing had cost an arm and a leg but the reverence with which Dick treated it made it worth every penny. “At least then, perhaps, we might have left on time.”

A singular, long-suffering and exasperated eye roll was what he received in turn. “My first week un-grounded and you want me to sit out of a mission? Typical. No way was I sitting out of this one; we even picked up some alien technology―We're not sure what it does yet, but Wally and I are gonna check it out tomorrow. Poke around inside it and see if we can figure out how it works and stuff.”

Bruce smirked, but he allowed the faintest hint of light-heartedness in his tone, “My apologies. I should know by now getting you to sit out of  _anything_  is a mission in and of its own.”

Dick huffed at the remark, but pushed past and strolled through the door before retorting over his shoulder, “I thought you said we were going to be late―you want to be late to your own party? Weren't you trying to shirk that  _billionaire-rich-man-playboy-vibe_  the papers have pinned you with?”

Bruce reached out with the intent to pinch the little Robin in his side for the impudent comment, but the boy just dodged him, simply skipping lightly out the way with a cheeky snigger and sauntering down the hall with his typical, gleeful mischievousness. “Can't catch me, old man!”

“Hey!” Bruce bristled with amused indignation, following after, “Who are you calling an old man?”

Dick spun around on his heel so Bruce could see the laughter lining his face, “It  _is_ your birthday. Be thankful I've already promised Alfred not to sing my  _favourite_ rendition of the birthday song at the restaurant in front of all those pretentious people.” Promptly, he cleared his throat and launched into a sonorous number of aforementioned rendition. “ _H_ _appy birthday to you, you're one-hundred-and-two, you look like a monkey, aaaaaaaand you smell like one too!_ ”

Bruce had to press his lips together, if only to stop himself from chuckling. “Alright, alright,” he said, shooting across a chastising look that fooled nobody and served only to widen the grin on the boy's face, “Stop teasing me, I'm an old man, remember? I don't deserve this.”

Dick's shining laugh peeled like a bell throughout the house as they descended the stairs, the little acrobat deciding to jump the last two steps and land with a little flourish before stooping into a bow in front of Alfred, who had emerged from the dinning room carrying a mysterious bag and a look of suspicion.

“Behave, you two.” Said the old butler, giving them a look that promised retribution if they didn't as he passed the parcel to Dick.

The boy snorted through his smile, “Always, Alfred. We would never bring shame upon you by not adhering to the Pennyworth standard.”

Alfred's eyes narrowed even further as he replied, “I thought I told you to stop telling lies as a boy, Master Dick,” but the words didn't have any heat in them and the merriment underlying his expression belied any reproach in the tone.

Dick gasped in mock offence, “Alfred, I never―!”

Bruce did let out a chuckle at that, watching the constructed pout tremble as Dick sniffed and pretended to manufacture crocodile tears with great show. Alfred flicked the young man in the elbow in retaliation and Dick's act dropped when he went to rub the sore spot.

“Go on you two, get going,” he said, throwing his hands on his lips and speaking more toward Bruce. “If you don't go now you really will be late.”

With a glance down at his watch Bruce confirmed this, giving the man a short nod before tugging the sleeve of Dick's suit and waving over his shoulder. “We'll see you later, Alfred.”

“Enjoy yourselves,” he responded in return. “And happy birthday, Master Bruce!”

~

Their table in the restaurant was by the large window that overlooked the Gotham strip, where the twinkling night lights of the down-town area gazed upward and blotted out the natural firmament above with what Dick always proclaimed to be their  _garish, bright colours and effulgent advertising,_  but tonight, even he did not seem to mind the lurid, coruscating city stars.

The atmosphere inside was quiet―not too many other patrons out for a meal, it seemed―and Bruce enjoyed not having curious faces turning his way as he allowed the uppity waiter to lay a napkin over his lap. The man handed him the wine list for perusal and then proceeded to assess the billionaire surreptitiously over his half-moon glasses like a skinny, beardless Dumbledore when Bruce took his time to decide on a sauvignon blanc. When the wine list was passed back again, the man sent a brief but furtive glance toward Dick, who studiously ignored him. “And for the young gentleman?” The waiter inquired, placing the wine list under his arm

Bruce looked over and deadpaned, “An orange juice.”

Swiftly the man nodded and turned on his heel, just as Dick's head whipped back. The look of disbelief was so priceless that Bruce almost had to smother a throaty chuckle.

Readjusting his napkin, Bruce waited as the wheels turned in Dick's head, no doubt wondering what game he was playing at. “You always give me a sip of your wine.” He groused, appearing actually quite put-out. It was true. Ordinarily, Bruce wouldn't bother ordering a drink for his young protégé, knowing the young man would sneak sips from his glass anyway and altogether neglect his own drink, but tonight he would be keeping a more careful eye where his wine glass drifted.

“Yes, well,” he hummed in reply, allowing just the faintest smirk to quiver on his lips, “that was  _before_ you stole from my liquor cabinet.” Dick visibly cringed, his ward's eyes darting left as he recalled the incident in his mind.

“Oh….” Was the eventual, intelligent reply, “right.”

“I think laying off the alcohol might be a smart idea,” Bruce went on with a quirked eyebrow and a sterner tone than was strictly necessary. “Don't you?”

The boy just grunted softly, obviously displeased, but not arguing at least. Bruce would take the small win for what it was. Dick didn't let silence settle between them though. “Well then,” he said, reaching down for the parcel Alfred had handed him before they'd left the house. By this point, Bruce had all but forgotten the thing was even there. “I suppose this is a good-enough time as any.”

Dick dipped his hand inside the bag and pulled out another bag, the action oddly reminiscent of Russian Dolls, but this bag was shimmery and gold. _O_ _ne_ _for wine_ , Bruce noted―long and slender and expensive looking.

Dick passed it across the table and continued, “Alfred helped me with it.”

The boy ducked his head then,deliberately avoiding eye contact with Bruce as the man took the gift graciously with two hands.

“Obviously.” The young man added at the last moment.

Frowning curiously, the man glanced down as he settled the bag in his lap and reached inside. His hand clasped around the neck of something cool and glass and he lifted the object up to examine the label, unexpectedly heavier than he'd been anticipating.

Bruce's eyebrows rose and he couldn't help but let out an amused snort, “Scotch.”

“It's not your birthday present,” Dick elaborated, finally looking up. It took Bruce far too long to identify the red in his ward's cheeks as embarrassment. “Um, more of an apology present? I really am sorry… I was― I acted stupidly. Childishly.”

The night he'd waited up to have Dick come home completely drunk swam to the forefront of his mind like a drowning swimmer gasping for air, the memory of his little Robin standing so defeated and hurt twisted his stomach.

“Chum…” he sighed, pinning his little bird with a fond look as the feeling welled-up inside him. “All is forgiven, you know that.”

The boy nodded and squirmed in his seat, “Yeah. I know. But still.”

Bruce sent what he hoped was a meaningful smile across the table as he returned the bottle of scotch―the same brand and vintage that Dick had lifted from his liquor cabinet―back into the wine bag for safe keeping. The waiter took that moment to re-emerge with their drinks.

Once the man was gone again, having delivered a complimentary basket of hot, freshly made bread rolls as well, Dick slid the smaller square present across the table and his mouth turned up at the corners. “I hope you like it,” he said, in a voice so quiet one would be forgiven for thinking it was a whisper. “Happy birthday.” Then the boy sat back and took a long sip from his juice, twirling the straw in his glass with what the older man knew to be nervousness.

An unusual furl of excitement unfolded itself in Bruce's chest as he reached for the gift, pulling the purple ribbon that held together the silver wrapping to reveal a very beautiful, black velveteen box with gold embellishments wending their way around the edges. A large, ornamental 'B' shone brilliantly in the center, embossed there with several plant-like vines snaking out and interweaving throughout the design. It was not unlike a ring box, but it was much larger.

Bruce felt his heart give one enormous thump as he pushed the lid up with his thumb, revealing the present inside.

_Silver, bat-shaped cuff-links._

They were absolutely beautiful. Bruce stared at them for a full minute before he gingerly ran a thumb over one, admiring the craftsmanship. They were subtle and small enough to not be noticed unless the light caught them at just the right angle―two bats flying off into the night with wings spread.

It was only when Dick spoke again that Bruce realised he'd been silently staring at them for possibly a little too long, “Do you like them?” There was a degree of uncertainty in his ward's voice, as though he imagined Bruce would do anything but absolutely adore them.

The man had to set the box aside and take a moment to swallow past the lump of emotion in his voice, disproportionately proud of himself for managing to keep his tone even when he replied, “Yes, I love them. Thank you, Dick.”

Finally, Dick's lips blossomed into a tentative smile, his eyes searching the face before him for any trace of a lie, allowing the smile to grow broader only when he found none. Bruce knew he wasn't very good at expressing his emotions openly, he didn't like to wear his heart on his sleeve like a fool, so it was probably fortunate that Dick was so good at reading him.

The boy helped himself to a bread roll and dropped his gaze. “I hoped you would,” he said quietly, small and soft around the eyes as he spoke towards his side-plate, appearing every bit his age. “I thought they were cute. And they'll suit you.”

Bruce nodded and reached for a bread roll of his own as his little Robin absconded the butter to the other side of the table.

“I'll make sure to wear them often.” He said, to which Dick shoved a buttered bread roll into his mouth around a grin and then took the conversation upon himself by launching into a vivid retelling of Gotham Academy's nail biting semi-final win in the Academic Decathlon against Metropolis Grammar as Bruce settled back in his chair with wine in hand to listen.

For the first time in a very long time, it really was a happy birthday.


End file.
